Perfect
by AKA DD
Summary: There's a wedding, and she bets it's perfect. It's just like him to make it perfect. Snickers.


**Disclaimer** CSI doesn't belong to me. I'm just borrowing the awesome characters.

**A/N** It was for the CSI100 prompt: Weddings, but as usual, I've never been accused of being concise. So, this one's about 900 words.

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**PERFECT**

"Sara?" Grissom's voice echoed in the dark hotel suite as he stuck his head cautiously through the doorway.

He heard a little rustle from further back into the room and his hand instantly went towards his hip, reaching for the non-existent handgun. He frowned, realizing that he was still wearing his tuxedo sans holster.

"Sara?" he called again, this time his voice ringing with urgency as he stepped into the suite. The heavy curtains had been drawn shut against the brilliant Texan sunlight outside. It was only four in the afternoon, but inside, it was as if the sun didn't exist at all.

"Go away, Grissom," the voice came from the living area where an ornate couch sat.

Grissom approached the figure sitting stock still at one end of the couch, feet tucked neatly underneath her. His focus zoomed in on the fragile stillness with which she held herself: the way her shoulders were so stiff, her neck taut, her breathing too even—almost non-existent. Her fingers were wrapped with deceptive looseness around the slender neck of a Sam Adams. His trained eyes found several other bottles arranged neatly in a row just underneath the mahogany coffee table.

Her peach satin dress was wrinkled and bunched over her legs. It was strange to see her in such a soft color. It was so starkly different from the Sara who always wore the practical dark colors. At that exact moment, in that dress, she was a vulnerable woman, instead of the tough as nails CSI she always held herself to be.

Her dark eyes turned up to meet his. They were deep and blank. They had that glassy sheen over it, the kind that they saw all too often when people died before their eyes could close.

"Sara—"

But she cut him off. "How was it?" she asked abruptly in that husky voice of hers. Her eyes suddenly became sharper, brighter. With a pang, he realized it was because tears had formed in their dark depths. "I never made it out the door."

Grissom didn't have to be CSI to know that. Everything looked like she was ready to go. She had her dress on, the wide-brimmed hat with the peach satin ribbon sat on the couch next to her thigh, her sandals looked like they had been kicked off and lay haphazardly on the carpet next to the ottoman, and her purse sat on the hallway floor, on the way out of the door.

"It went well," he said softly. "It was…beautiful."

"I _couldn't_," she said, her voice breaking with tears.

Grissom stood rooted to where he was. He really didn't know how to deal with Sara. He was afraid that if he tried to touch her, she would shatter in his arms. And he knew damned well that he wasn't the one who knew how to put back the pieces. She had made her choice long ago.

Grissom took a deep breath and shifted uncomfortably where he stood. He watched as Sara wiped away her tears impatiently and took a long swig from her bottle, her throat working spasmodically as she gulped down half of the drink. She licked her lips with a false flourish then smiled angrily at him. "It was beautiful, huh? I bet it was perfect. It would be just like him to make it perfect."

Her voice was biting with razor-sharp edginess. It was bitter cold like jagged ice chips.

"I'm so—"

"Don't be," she cut him off hastily. She stood up suddenly, staggering a bit, but raising her hand to shoo him away. "It was my fault." Without warning, she threw the beer bottle across the room with an angry grunt, and it shattered against the wall, leaving a yellowish beer stain on the satin wallpaper.

Grissom tensed, his eyes narrowed and he prepared himself to have to wrestle her down. Sometimes, Sara was so self-contained that he had often wondered how long it would be before everything just burst to the fore.

"See that, Gris?" she murmured. Strangely enough, her voice wasn't even slurred. "My daddy used to do that, too. When he was frustrated. I guess I'm just like him."

Grissom pressed his lips together tightly. He watched as she battled with some sort of inner demon, her face crumbling and resettling itself. "Sara…your parents…"

"They should have taught me, Gris," she mumbled. There was an age-old sadness in her dark, dark eyes. It was like looking at a wounded animal that you knew you had to put down. "They never taught me how to love."

What could he say to that? Grissom sighed heavily, the only indication he gave her that he was still listening.

"He married her…he married her because I couldn't love him. Because I didn't know _how,_" she sobbed, as she sank back down onto the couch. Her voice was hollow, hoarse, stretched taut over grief, pain, and regret. "Please…you can't help me right now. Please, just go."

"Sara, I can't leave you in this state."

"It's me, Gris. I won't do anything much more than this."

With a sad twinge in his heart, he realized that she was right. Sara was always self-contained. Today, she had come close to breaking apart. But somehow, she had still managed to pull herself together. He gave her a searching look, and her pale, beautiful face stared back at him with blank serenity.

"Okay." With that, he gingerly left her hotel room and went back downstairs to the festivities of Nick's wedding.

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END.


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